


It's Gonna be a Long Walk Home

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Angels, First Time, M/M, Romance, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Dean has always gravitated toward Sam, but neither one of them has ever particularly believed in destiny. Now a demon is after them, their world is falling apart, and the voices in Dean's head might just drive him insane. One thing the boys are sure of: they can't afford to lose each other.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	It's Gonna be a Long Walk Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [giandujakiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giandujakiss/gifts).



When Dean is four years old, he asks his mom why her tummy is getting so big. Mary smiles at him and says, "That's your baby brother, sweetheart. You'll get to meet him soon." Dean falls asleep on her lap that night, lulled by the soft back-and-forth of the rocking chair, curled protectively around a little brother that hasn't even been born yet.

When Daddy takes him to visit Sammy in the hospital for the first time, Dean wants to teach his new brother everything. He wants to take his books and his baseball glove and the set of Lego blocks he keeps in a box under his bed.

But Daddy says Sam is still too small for those things, and he makes Dean leave them behind.

Sammy _is_ tiny—all wrinkled and squinty—and lies curled up tight in the little plastic basket next to Mommy's bed. He's perfect, and Dean cries when Daddy says they have to go.

Six months later is the night of the fire, and Dean doesn't know what's going on. All he knows is that he has to protect Sammy. He holds his brother close and runs, and he never once worries that he might drop the baby. That's not even a possibility.

He helps with Sam the best he can after that—takes care of him when Dad is sad or busy or tired or gone. Makes sure Sammy's got shoes and cereal and bedtime stories. Sam is Dean's first and biggest responsibility, and he never once thinks to resent it.

When Sam graduates from high school, Dean is so proud it hurts. John gets there late, but he's in time to see Sammy walk across the stage. They watch the ceremony from the bright, windy bleachers, and Dean can't wipe the grin off his face.

Six hours later, Sam brandishes his Stanford letter and storms out the door. Dean feels like a piece of his chest has been ripped out and thrown to the wolves. His ears ring for hours from the sharp, wrenching fight he failed to defuse, and all he can think is that it's not supposed to go like this. He's supposed to protect his family. He's supposed to protect _Sam_. How can he do that if his brother is halfway across the country and wants nothing to do with him?

John soldiers stubbornly on as if nothing has changed after Sam is gone. He fakes the status quo even more poorly than Dean does, but it's better than nothing. Dean soldiers on with him.

His heart may not be in it, but Sam is gone, and Dean doesn't know what else to do.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam spends his first few months at Stanford constantly homesick. He knows it's ridiculous. After all, 'home' is just an abstract term for a place Sam has never known. But he gravitates towards campus social events and study groups like a lonely moth to a particularly bright flame. He doesn't do it out of some misplaced urge to belong—Sam's got no delusions about this oblivious world and his true place in it—but more for the sake of distraction.

It's easier not to think about the bridges burned behind him when his days and nights are full of noise and activity and _people_.

The result is that, by fall break his first semester, everyone on campus knows who he is. His intramural soccer team is the best in town, he's getting A's in all his classes, and the Stanford Film Society wants him to replace their treasurer when she graduates a semester early.

He still feels unfathomably lonely in the quiet spaces of downtime, but there are fewer and fewer of those lately. If nothing else, Sam is good at keeping busy.

The first time he notices Dean watching him is early November, and he can't decide if he's surprised to see his brother or just disappointed it took him so long to show. If Sam had been in a position to lay down odds, he'd have bet his brother couldn't stay away for more than two months.

Sam doesn't let on that he's noticed Dean's presence, keeping his attention half-tuned to the immediate conversation. He figures he'll wait it out and give Dean a chance to come to him.

But when he finally excuses himself from the gaggle of classmates, the sidewalk is empty and his brother is nowhere to be seen.

When Dean shows his face a second time, all of two weeks later, Sam wonders what it means. Now that the dam's broken, maybe his brother can't stay away. It seems just as likely that Dean's been surreptitiously visiting him from day one without Sam noticing, but he doesn't like that idea. He doesn't like to think about his brother being this close without Sam realizing it. When Dean is in his orbit, Sam should _know_.

Dean hangs to the shadows that second time, too, and carefully keeps his distance the third, the fourth, the fifth. As the school year passes and leads into summer, it gets to the point where Sam doesn't even startle when he sees his brother. He barely feels the twinge of surprised disappointment when Dean turns around and leaves without coming forward to say hi.

During the fall of Sam's sophomore year, he asks Jessica Moore to the sophomore formal. He almost doesn't work up the guts—after all, why would she say yes? But Andrea Taylor corners him in the hall outside the cafeteria and asks what the hell is taking him so long.

"Excuse me?" Sam asks, blinking in confusion.

"Jess has been waiting on you to ask her to the dance for _weeks_ , Sam. If you don't do it soon she's going to buy a plane ticket to visit her family instead, and then you'll never get to see the gorgeous dress she bought last week."

He can't afford to rent a limo, and he doesn't think to bring a corsage, but Jess smiles wide and bright, like those things don't matter, then dances with him until the last song ends and the DJ tells everyone to go home. Sam never catches sight of his brother in the dim, patchy light of the ballroom, but around ten o'clock his neck prickles with warning heat, and he knows Dean is there.

He's already looking for apartments at the end of his junior year when Jess corners him and asks, "Wouldn't it be simpler if we got a place together? Not to mention cheaper. And no offense, sweetie, but the thought of you alone in a kitchen really makes me nervous."

"That sounds perfect," Sam says. "We can study for the LSAT together." They would have done that anyway, but Jess laughs and leans in close. Sam smiles and kisses her, and can't quite decide if the tingle along his skin is anticipation or the feeling of Dean watching him at a distance.

When Dean finally shows up on Sam's doorstep—or in his living room, rather, since they wouldn't be Winchesters if they didn't default to sneaking around in the dark—Sam almost doesn't believe what he's seeing.

"What are you _doing_ here?" he asks, breathing hard from their tussle as he gets to his feet and hauls Dean up after him. He doesn't mean the tone to sound so accusing, and he's grateful the room is nearly pitch dark. He can imagine the flash of hurt playing across Dean's face, and seeing it head-on would probably break his heart.

"I need you, Sammy," says Dean, with false cheer that grates sandpaper thin. "It's Dad," he continues, tone downshifting suddenly as he drops the façade. The heavy worry in his voice makes Sam cringe.

When the light clicks on, sudden and blinding, Sam spies Jess standing curiously in the doorway. He turns back to Dean, already knowing he's going to say yes.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean's never seen a Woman in White before.

He's read about them, sure. What hunter worth his rock salt hasn't?

But he's never seen one, and Constance Welch is terrifying and heartbreaking—but still no match for Sam and Dean Winchester. They work like a team that's never been apart, solid and strong at each others' backs. It makes Dean's chest pulse uncomfortably, because he knows it has to end.

When the smoke clears he's got the coordinates Dad left him, and Sam in the passenger seat, waiting for Dean to drive him back to his girl.

Dean sticks to the speed limit the entire way. Sam doesn't call him on it once.

"We made a good team back there," Dean says once the car is idling in front of the tall brick building Sam calls home now.

"Yeah," says Sam. He fidgets uncomfortably for a moment, hands deep in his pockets, and finally adds, "You want to come inside for awhile? Maybe eat something before you hit the road?"

Dean should say no. His chest feels full and bright and ready to explode just from _looking_ at Sam, and he needs to drive away while he can—while he's still capable of putting Sam in his rearview mirror and heading for Dad's cryptic destination.

"Sure," he says instead. "Just let me park the car."

The apartment is quiet when they walk in. There's a light on in the living room, and another beyond the cracked bedroom door. Dean can hear the shower running, and follows his brother further inside, swinging the front door shut behind him.

"Jess, I'm home!" Sam calls, shouldering through the bedroom door. Dean follows, and watches from the doorframe as Sam tosses his worn duffel to the floor. There's a plate of cookies on the table, and an acrid stench of something _wrong_ in the air, and Dean feels his hackles rising even before the lack of response from the bathroom has Sam calling out a second, "Jess, you in there?"

"Sam," he says warningly. His eyes track across the room, sweeping the walls and floor, and finally rise to the ceiling. "Oh, fuck," he whispers, just as the ceiling ignites.

The room goes bright then—not just the flame, but some other impossible flash of light. It shines and expands and makes him scream. He can hear Sam screaming, too, and Jess's voice calling for help, and then he must black out because the next thing he hears is the piercing wail of sirens.

"Jesus, Dean, wake up!" Sam is gasping, shaking him violently. Dean chokes on air for a moment, blinking his eyes open to a grainy darkness, pierced by red and blue snatches of light. "Fuck, man, you can't ditch me now. I don't even know what happened in there, come _on_! Dean!"

Dean blinks his eyes a couple times, flinching as the frantic dance of lights makes his head pulse painfully.

"Sammy," he breathes, coughing when the syllables catch in his throat. "Fuck, Sam, 'sokay. I'm here." He reaches blindly for his brother and holds on tight to the fabric of Sam's coat.

"Thank god." Sam sags with relief. "They took Jess."

"Who?" Dean asks, instantly alert. "Who took Jess?"

"The paramedics," says Sam, whole body shaking. "In the ambulance. They said… They told me which hospital, but I don't remember now. We have to make sure she's okay."

"Help me up," says Dean.

Even once he's on his feet, he can't let go of Sam right away. His legs are too shaky to support him, and he probably shouldn't drive in this condition.

"Dean, what happened in there?" Sam asks, soft and terrified.

"I don't know," Dean admits. His voice shakes on the words.

The doctors say Jessica will make a full recovery, but Dean still feels guilty as hell. Whatever curse he brought back into Sam's life, whatever the hell went down in that apartment, he knows it's his fault. He knows he should never have taken Sam away.

He tries to make a graceful exit—better late than never—but Sam just shakes his head sadly and says, "Don't you dare take off yet. I'm going with you."

Dean should tell his brother no—or better yet, ditch out when no one is looking—but instead he finds himself standing in the hospital hallway, watching through the window as Sam sits in the chair beside Jessica's bed and says goodbye. Dean watches her eyes as they fill with disbelief and then tears, and he hates himself for the fact that of all the things he feels guilty for, this isn't one of them.

All he can think about is finally having his brother back.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

They hunt. Ghosts and shapeshifters and monster trucks. Stuff that, even though he's known this world practically his whole life, Sam can barely believe exists.

There are so many moments—vivid little glimpses—that prove his brother went right on and had a life of his own during Sam's self-imposed exile. Jerry Panowski and Cassie Robinson, and the easy way Dean shifts from case to case without breaking a sweat, like being in the driver's seat on a hunt is old hat by now. It's selfish of him, and juvenile, but Sam can't help feeling like it shouldn't be this way. Dean's life wasn't supposed to go on without him. Not like this.

Especially not when Dean found his way to Stanford every couple weeks, although Sam is honestly starting to wonder if he imagined those moments.

Dean actually asks once if Sam wants to go back. Points out that school could still be waiting for him, and maybe Jess, too.

"No," Sam says, quiet but sure. "I already said goodbye. There's nothing for me to go back to."

"You were on your way to having an actual _life_ , man," Dean says guiltily. "You could still have that."

"Yeah. Sure," Sam says. He huffs a wistful breath. "Maybe someday." But he's pretty sure he doesn't mean it.

Sam notices, after Athens, Ohio, that Dean is having nightmares. "Just a bad dream," he always says when Sam tries to call him on it. But from the way Dean thrashes in his sleep, Sam suspects they're more than just bad dreams. Nightmares at best, something far more sinister at worst. Two months ago, Dean drove them all the way to Lawrence, Kansas because Sam had a Bad Dream. Maybe it runs in the family.

When Dean wakes up almost screaming one night, Sam is already sitting on the edge of his brother's bed, barely resisting the urge to run his fingers through Dean's sweat-damp hair.

"Are they like mine?" Sam asks quietly. He reaches out to touch Dean's shoulder, and purses his lips together in frustration when his brother's moonlit silhouette turns away without answering. "Dean," he presses. "Do they ever come true?"

"No," Dean says with forced calm. "Never. They're not visions."

"Then what?" Sam asks.

"I don't know," says Dean. Long moments later, in a voice gone impossibly quiet, he adds, "But they feel like fire."

Sam cancels their new witness interview the next morning and insists that they're taking a day off. Nothing but sparring, Bruce Willis movies and bar food, and it's almost like a vacation. Sam thinks it might just help.

When Dean starts mumbling helplessly in his sleep that night, Sam climbs onto his brother's bed and curls in close. He falls asleep on top of the covers, wishing like hell there were something more he can do.

He wakes up from a nightmare of his own two nights later, gasping and hurting. His head throbs from images too bright and vivid to be anything like a dream, and Dean is there beside him, shaking his shoulders and bringing him back to _now_.

"What did you see?" Dean asks. He packs them both into the car before Sam has even finished explaining.

They can't save Max Miller, in the end.

Sam almost doesn't care.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Weeks turn into months, and the two of them survive by the skin of their teeth.

They find Dad and lose him again—let him drive away into the empty, drizzling night. Dean wants to scream as he watches the truck's taillights vanish down the alley—wants to shout at the man to come back, they've changed their minds, they need to stay together—but instead he holds Sam back and watches John disappear.

When they lose Dad the second time, it's a hundred times worse. Demons and something like destiny, and they've got one chance to get him back. They follow the clues to a bright, surreal apartment building: it's a trap, but they spring it anyway.

Between luck and the Colt, the Winchesters manage to get away.

They should be home free after that—or as close as a hunter ever gets. They should be relatively safe in this crumbling old cabin, with the doors and windows salted shut and the Colt tucked safely at Dean's back. He doesn't understand why he can't get his heart to settle.

By the time he figures it out, he's too late.

He curses himself as John's eyes blink up at him, smug and yellow, and then Dean is flying across the room and slamming into the wall. He hears the sound of a second impact, Sam across the room, and fuck, he can't _breathe_. The air's been too solidly knocked out of him, left him breathless and gasping, and where's Sam, he needs to protect Sam—

His dad's voice chuckles darkly, and Dean forces a ragged breath into his protesting lungs. He breathes in and out, rough and quick, and finally manages to focus his eyes on the yellow-eyed bastard wearing his father.

"What a pain in my ass this thing's been," the demon mutters, straightening up from a crouch. He has the Colt in his hand.

"It's you, isn't it," Sam growls. Dean wants to tell his brother to shut up, but he can't seem to make his throat work. "We've been looking for you a hell of a long time."

"Well," John's voice says, malicious and mirthful. "You've found me. Congratulations."

"But the holy water," Sam says, twisting against invisible bonds.

' _Shut up, Sammy_!' Dean wants to shout, and can't.

"You think something like that works on something like me?" the demon asks. Its expression is bright and taunting, its posture a casual slouch "You boys are just too precious. You honestly think you're going to kill me with this thing."

"We are," Sam growls. The demon just laughs and sets the gun on the table.

"That'd be a neat trick," it says. "Why don't you make the gun float to you, then, psychic boy?"

For a shatteringly hopeful second—as Sam turns his attention to the gun and squints with focused concentration—Dean thinks maybe it will work.

It doesn't, of course. Dean's shoulders slump as his Dad's captive body laughs and saunters closer. At least it's looking at Dean now. At least its attention has drifted away from Sam.

"Your dad's in here with me, you know," the demon purrs. "Trapped inside his own meat suit. He says 'hi', by the way." Then it steps closer—too far into Dean's personal space for comfort—and sneers as it says, "He's gonna tear you apart. He's gonna taste the iron in your blood." The words are vicious with promise, and they leave Dean's fists clenching uselessly at his sides.

The demon tries to make good on that promise.

It taunts and riles them for awhile first, malignant laughter in its gold, glowing eyes, but soon enough Dean feels the talons of its power digging in beneath his skin. He screams, the sound erupting harsh and jagged from his throat, and he would double over in agony if he weren't stuck to this goddamn wall.

When the room goes bright, it's like déjà vu. He thinks, for a split second, that this is the opening volley for some new torture, and then he's out—falling, falling, all the way through nothingness and back again—and when his senses return, Dean finds himself crumpled to the floor. The scene before him is completely different.

No more yellow eyes staring him down from uncomfortably close. He sees his Dad, sprawled on his back, curling in on himself like his insides are on fire, screaming something at Sam. Sam stands over the man, holding the Colt, eyes dodging back and forth between John's crumpled form and Dean's. The setup isn't hard to read.

"Sammy, don't!" Dean croaks through an aching throat. "Don't you do it!"

"I can't hold it much longer!" John yells, voice strained and rough. "You shoot me, Sammy! Shoot me in the heart, son!"

" _No_!" Dean shouts, crawling his way upright as his strength returns, using the wall for support every inch of the way. "Sammy, don't you dare. Don't you _fucking_ dare!"

And Dean's got no idea what god to thank, but Sam doesn't pull the trigger. The moment pulls taut and explodes as black smoke pours from John's screaming throat, and then it's just the three of them in the cabin. Alone, alive, and not too badly hurt.

"What do we do?" Sam asks. Dean can tell his brother is deliberately ignoring the betrayed looks their father keeps shooting him.

"We get out of here," John says, getting to his feet and settling quickly into business mode. "The demon knows where we are, so we have to be elsewhere. We'll drive as random a route as we can, and we'll do it without headlights. Thing's probably got spies out there, but they can't be everywhere at once. With any luck we'll be able to sneak under the radar."

It's not a great plan, but it's all they've got—and somehow, against all odds, it's a plan that carries them safely through. Dean doesn't breathe easy until they're crossing the border into Illinois, leaving that cabin more than an hour and a half behind them.

The next morning, exhausted and sore and staring at his dad over lukewarm coffee in a gray motel parking lot, Dean hears with discomfited detachment as his own voice says, "Splitting up is still a bad idea." He means it, sure, but it still feels like someone else is saying it. He's not quite firing on all thrusters right now.

"It'll make us harder to track for awhile," John insists quietly. "Anyway, I have to look into some things. I've got angles to investigate that will be easier to do alone."

"What, because of what happened in the cabin?" Dean asks, anxious and suddenly tense. "Isn't it enough that we all made it out alive? Can't we just call ourselves lucky for once?"

"Our family's luck don't run that way. And whatever it was happened back there… there's an explanation, and I need to find it."

"Yeah, I guess you do," Dean sighs resignedly. He rubs a hand tiredly across his face, then locks his father with a serious look. "You'll call sometimes, right? No more of this radio silence bullshit?"

"Nothing's changed, Dean," says John. "It's still dangerous. But I'll try to do better."

"What do I tell Sam?" Dean asks. Because from the bag hoisted over John's shoulder and the tired resignation in his eyes, his father plans on hitting the road on foot right this minute.

"Tell him I understand why he didn't do it," says John. Hesitates a moment, then adds, "and that I love him." And then he's _right there_ , dragging Dean into a hug, and Dean wraps his arms around his father and clings, blinking back tears from eyes gone suddenly hot. "Love you both so fucking much," John rumbles in his ear. "You take care of each other."

"Yes, sir," Dean whispers, and forces himself to let go.

As he watches his dad disappear slowly down the street, Sam sleeping in the motel room behind him is all that stops him from picking up his feet to follow.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dad's been gone for a month by the time Sam realizes his brother is acting weirder than usual. It's not just the nightmares anymore, though those remain a frustrating, anxious constant.

It's every day, a steadily growing distraction, until Dean is zoning out for hours at a time. Sam rationalizes it away as long as he can: it's just the weirdness of their father's abrupt departure, and worry about the fact that the demon is still out there. It's just his brother's reaction to a world gone sideways.

But as days turn into weeks and Dean goes from dodgy to punchy to downright withdrawn, Sam realizes it's no such thing. And much as he wants to leave it be, he knows they have to deal with it. This kind of liability has the potential to get them killed on a hunt.

Assuming Dean doesn't completely lose his mind first.

"Talk to me, man," Sam says.

It's a random, anonymous Wednesday, and Sam knows something's wrong because Dean hasn't so much as sniffed in the direction of the takeout and six pack that have been sitting on the table for ten minutes.

Dean doesn't try and deflect or redirect him either. He just stares off into space and whispers, "You'll think I'm crazy."

"Tell me anyway," Sam says, taking a seat beside Dean on the edge of his brother's bed. He slouches forward in a subconscious mirror of Dean's posture. "It's not like we haven't handled crazy before."

"Crazy's never been like this," says Dean. The fact that he still won't make eye contact is making Sam itch with nervous anticipation.

"We'll deal with it," Sam promises, and waits patiently for his brother to speak. Dean stays unfocused for a moment, distant and lost—like he's listening to something besides Sam—then finally turns and meets Sam's eyes.

"I'm hearing things, Sammy," he whispers.

"Things," says Sam, heart going tight in his chest. "Things like what?"

"Voices," says Dean. "Scared ones. Angry ones. So fuckin' many of them, and they're all saying crazy shit. About demons and Judgment Day and… fucking _Armageddon_."

"Holy shit."

Dean's eyes actually widen, his breath hastens, and he grabs Sam's arm in an unyielding grip. There's terror on his brother's face, and Sam's breath lodges low in his throat.

"Sammy," Dean gasps like a frantic revelation. "Sometimes they talk about _us_."

"Holy shit," Sam repeats uselessly. He feels helpless, like he's staring at a fast-approaching cliff's edge with no clue how to find the breaks. Worse, he feels like he's failing Dean. His brother needs him, and all Sam can do is stare.

"What the fuck are we supposed to do?" Dean asks, hysteria edging into his voice. "Jesus, Sammy, this stuff can't be real, right?"

"Hey, easy," Sam says, snapping out of his shock enough to get a hand on the back of his brother's neck. He kneads his fingers into the taut muscle, massaging the tension away as best he can. Dean doesn't relax into his touch, but he doesn't pull away either. He stares at Sam for long, ragged minutes, and just when Sam is starting to think he should stop, the levee finally gives.

Dean surges against him, curling against Sam's side and clinging with fingers that knot desperately in the loose fabric of Sam's shirt. Dean's whole body is shaking, his breath pouring in and out in uneven gasps, and Sam wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders and holds on. It's all he can think to do.

He's filled with the sudden surreal sense that this isn't his brother. The Dean he knows would never fall apart like this—would never cling to him like a lost, terrified child whose only salvation is Sam.

But the Dean he knows doesn't hear voices in his head either. Hasn't been listening to rambling voices that only he can hear for weeks, maybe even months.

Sam hopes, for all of a moment, that his brother is just going crazy. He instantly feels guilty for having the thought.

It's moot, anyway. Dean isn't crazy. Sam may not know what's going on, but he knows that much sure enough. Their family history is one horror story after another, nothing but unexplained mysteries, and this is just icing on the goddamn cake. This has something to do with their mother, and Sam's visions, and maybe with the white, burning light Sam has seen knock his brother out twice in the past year.

"It's okay," Sam murmurs, realizing he's been muttering reassuring nonsense for the past several minutes. "It's okay, Dean. We'll figure it out. I promise."

He hopes like hell he isn't lying.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean knows, well before he's willing to voice the thought aloud, that they have to stop hunting.

He finds them another case anyway, mostly because he has no idea what else to do. He sure as hell doesn't want to spend every waking moment focused on the terrifying story unraveling in his head. As long as they're doing something else, hunting something new, he can pretend to ignore it. He can pretend the voices are nothing but a tiny corner of crazy in his own head.

He can tell himself it isn't real.

He should probably call Dad and fill him in, but the idea leaves him sick to his stomach. Besides, he rationalizes, it's not like there's anything the man can do.

In Providence, Rhode Island, they meet a dead priest that says he's an angel.

Sam obviously wants to believe. There's nothing Dean wants more than to let him. He wants to stand back and let his brother have faith in something. But the second they hit town, the second they so much as set foot in that church, Dean knows this isn't an angel they're dealing with.

He keeps his certainty to himself—limits himself to disapproving grunts and cynical remarks. But it's not just jaded cynicism coloring his conclusion. He _knows_ , down past his bones, that all they're dealing with is another angry spirit.

Problem is, he can't prove it—not until they finish the investigation. There's no way Sam will let him get away with the argument, "because I just know," no matter how adamantly Dean insists. Which means they have to jump through the hoops, go through the motions—summon the spirit to its grave site, especially once Sam sees it and ends up assigned a mission of his own.

"I'm sorry," Dean says later—after they've saved one life and helped the misguided spirit move on.

"It's okay," says Sam—even though it's clearly not. "It just would've been nice, you know? It'd be nice to know it's not all just evil out there. I mean… _angels_ , Dean."

"Yeah," Dean mutters, stuffing his clean boxers into his duffel and zipping it harshly shut. He thinks about keeping his mouth shut, leaving Sam what's left of his delusions, but in the end he knows he can't. Too dangerous. "Well if there _are_ angels, I'm pretty sure they're dicks."

"Dean?" Sam asks, throwing him a concerned look.

Dean hesitates for a moment, staring straight ahead despite the weight of his brother's curious gaze. He finally forces himself to turn and meet Sam's eyes, and the look on his brother's face makes Dean's chest feel impossibly tight.

"The voices I've been hearing?" Dean clarifies quietly, pausing briefly to chew on his lower lip. "I'm pretty sure they're angels. And sometimes it's a little hard to tell whose side they're actually on."

"Oh," says Sam, eyes going sad. He looks crestfallen, and Dean instantly wants to take his words back.

"Hey," he says, stepping instinctively closer. He ignores the fuzzy static of voices humming at the back of his skull. "It's not all bad. So angels are assholes… So what? We don't need 'em. We've got each other and Dad."

"You're right," says Sam. He even smiles a little, and pats Dean awkwardly on the shoulder like maybe he wants to hug him. It's a weird moment, and Dean realizes abruptly just how close they're standing. Sam's face is a contradiction of intent and uncertainty.

"Anyway," Dean says, shrugging away from Sam's touch and hoisting his duffel over one shoulder. He turns back to Sam and plasters on a smile full of false confidence. "Let's get out of here, huh?"

"Sure," says Sam, and clicks off the light as he follows Dean out the door.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam stays busy 'looking' for another hunt after that, but he's very careful not to find one. Dean doesn't call him out on the stall tactics, but that could mean anything. Could mean his brother is onboard with Sam's new plan for not getting them killed on the job, or it could mean he doesn't notice what Sam's doing.

Dean's expression drifts distant sometimes, distracted and lost, and Sam wouldn't be surprised if his brother is genuinely oblivious. The thought terrifies him—hits him right beside the gnawing fear that he's slowly losing his brother.

Dean isn't crazy. But that doesn't mean the voices in his head can't destroy him.

"Dean," Sam says, anxiety tightening his chest as he grabs Dean's arm to get his attention. They're standing in a sun-drenched parking lot, the motel room door just five steps away, and Dean has gone motionless. His head is cocked to one side, his mouth hangs slightly open, and his eyes are unfocused in a way Sam has become painfully accustomed to in the last couple weeks. "Come on, man," Sam says, turning his brother to face him and giving a hard shake. "Stay with me, here. Don't listen to them."

"Something's coming, Sammy," says Dean, blinking hard as his eyes come slowly back into focus.

Sam laughs, soft and helpless and a little hysterical. "Of course it is," he says, giving Dean's shoulders a squeeze. He kind of wants to wrap his brother up in his arms, tight and protective, and never let go—breathe him in and pretend there's anything at all Sam can do to make it better. Instead he urges, "Let's get inside." He doesn't take his hands back until Dean starts moving. Sam digs the room key out of his pocket and unlocks the door.

The room isn't empty.

Sam curses, dark and startled, and blocks Dean with the bulk of his body. He can feel his brother peering over his shoulder, standing so close Sam can feel Dean's breath on the back of his neck, but he holds his ground, arm out to one side to keep Dean from sneaking around and past him.

"Who are you?" Sam asks the unfamiliar figure standing in the middle of the room.

The man has short, dark hair, and a mouth pinched with disapproval. His narrowed eyes stare into Sam like they can read every stain on his soul, and his posture is rigid beneath a heavy, tan trench coat.

"My name is Castiel," the man says. "I bear you a message."

"What kind of message?" Sam asks.

" _Sam_!" Dean hisses, edging closer behind him. Sam doesn't let him past. There's something off about their visitor—something that sends the skin at the back of Sam's neck tingling.

"A warning," Castiel says, taking a step towards them. "There is a demon in this town looking for you. He intends to do you harm."

"So what else is new," Dean mutters. Sam would roll his eyes, but he doesn't dare take them off their uninvited guest.

"His name is Azazel," says Castiel. "You have dealt with him before." The name is unfamiliar, but Sam knows instantly that the man is talking about the yellow-eyed demon.

"Where is he?" Sam asks, thoughts darkening with violence.

"I do not know his exact location," Castiel answers blankly. "But he must not find you. You must leave town as quickly as possible."

"Why?" Sam demands. "Maybe we can take him this time."

But between one blink and the next, Castiel is gone. Sam is left talking to an empty room—standing between his brother and no danger at all. His eyes dart along the walls, looking for any sign of where their visitor went, but there's nothing. The man is just gone.

"Come on," says Dean, still standing too close. He clenches a hand in Sam's sleeve. "Sammy, come on, we should do as he says."

"Why?" Sam asks, turning incredulous eyes on his brother. "Some dude we've never met before vanishes into thin air, and you want to follow his advice? We don't even know who he _is_ , Dean!"

Dean looks at him, eyes wide and bright and only inches away, and his throat works in a nervous swallow.

"What is it?" Sam asks, stomach feeling tight with nerves.

"Just. Just trust me, okay? We can talk about it later."

"Dean, _what_?" Sam asks. He doesn't mean to loom so close, or to back Dean against the door jamb, or to screw his face into so tight a scowl. But he needs to know, and he needs Dean to tell him _now_.

"He's an angel," Dean breathes, fear and resignation hollowing out the words.

"How do you know?" Sam asks, eyebrows rising incredulously.

" _Castiel_. I've heard that name before, Sammy." Sam doesn't ask him where. "I don't know what his game is, but if he says the demon is in town, then we run. We've got no backup, we don't have the Colt, and there's no way Dad will make it in time."

He's right on all counts, and Sam knows it.

It still takes him a moment to let go—to nod and agree and say, "Yeah, okay. We'll get out of here."

He doesn't back out of Dean's space right away, though. He's got the strangest feeling in his chest, hot and tight, and Dean is giving him a cryptic look: dark and confused and heavy with questions. It feels like they're on a thin precipice, hovering over something Sam's thoughts shy away from.

He stands there for long moments, close and considering. Dean doesn't try to duck past him, or flinch away from the pensive weight of Sam's gaze. It's a moment taut with electricity and potential, and if Sam could just put his finger on what this _is_ …

He figures it out with a jolt, jarring and abrupt, and his chest gives a warm, answering pulse of comprehension. For a second or two, all he can think is ' _Oh, fuck_.'

He takes a step back before he can do anything stupid, then gathers up his things and hurries outside.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean pretends not to notice how quiet Sam is in the car. He focuses on the route before them, picking random exit ramps and interchanges until they're three counties over and still have no destination.

Sam doesn't speak, even when Dean pulls in at a gas station to refuel. He just sits in the passenger seat, buried in a pensive cloud. Dean briefly considers disturbing his brother's determined funk—any number of excuses present themselves—but he decides against it. Better to let his brother stew silently. Meanwhile, Dean can pretend nothing else is amiss.

Sam keeps to himself through three more towns.

It's not until Dean finally pulls up next to a motel five hours later—a crumbly one with bright orange walls—that Sam straightens in his seat. His shoulders are confident and his eyes are determined: like he's finally come to terms with whatever he's been chewing on for the last two hundred miles.

They check in and carry their bags into room twenty. Everything's orange in here, too, and Dean already regrets not choosing the equally ramshackle place at the other end of the block. He's going to get a throbbing headache just sitting in here, never mind the uninvited voices that he knows will be screaming in his head by the time the night is over.

"Burgers or tacos?" Dean asks. He deposits his things on the bed nearest the door and jingles his keys in one hand.

"Dean, wait," says Sam.

Dean watches his brother deposit his bags and the computer in an unceremonious heap beneath the window, and it's all he can do to hold his ground when Sam turns and approaches him. He stubbornly ignores the instincts telling him to back away—to meet every step Sam takes forward with a matching step of retreat.

Sam doesn't stop until he's standing far too close, and the look in his eyes makes Dean's skin prickle warmly.

"Look, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," says Sam, biting his lower lip. "But… I kinda need a hint here. I don't want to go making an ass out of myself if you're not thinking what I'm thinking."

"Speaking in code now, Sammy?" Dean asks, the words escaping on a soft, nervous laugh.

"Don't play dumb, Dean," says Sam. There's no hint of humor in his expression.

Dean swallows hard and meets Sam's eyes—meets the wall of determination, heated and intense and almost too much. Sam looks so much more sure than the last time they stood like this—hours upon hours ago, when Sam crowded him against the doorframe. When Sam invaded Dean's space and just _looked_ at him, like Dean was a revelation he somehow needed to have.

Dean knows what this is now. He knows what Sam is asking, much as he'd rather play it oblivious and safe. And he knows—with sudden, stunning clarity—that they've been leading each other to this for a long time.

Maybe he didn't see it before, but Sam has been Dean's bottom line for a hell of a long time. For as long as Dean can remember, if he's going to be honest. They're too close, too constantly intertwined, and Dean's pretty sure he couldn't say no to this even if he wanted to.

He realizes, guiltily, that he _doesn't_ want to say no.

"Suppose I _am_ thinking what you're thinking," he says. Because if Sam's going to insist on talking in code, Dean's not going to be the one to break this messy thing out into the open. "What do we do about it?"

"This," says Sam. And kisses him. Just like that.

Dean should probably protest here. There are so _many_ things he should probably do, in fact, and melting helplessly against Sam really isn't one of them. But _god_ it feels good, and Dean grabs hold of Sam's shirt as his legs threaten to give out.

He murmurs a startled, " _Jesus_ ," against Sam's lips when his brother's arms close around him.

It's just him in his head right now: no extra voices, no countdown to some inexplicable Armageddon, just this. Just the impossible heat of Sam against him, and the quickening rhythm of Sam's pulse beneath his fingers.

"Fuck me, Sammy," he breathes into his brother's mouth, startling even himself with the words. The soft demand earns him a wry chuckle and a moment's respite. Sam draws back to frame Dean's face with one hand and look him hungrily in the eyes.

"We'll get there," Sam says, giving him a slow smile that somehow manages to look sweet and predatory all at once. "We've got time."

They don't get there tonight, but they don't need to. They navigate each other eagerly, sometimes awkwardly, stripping away layers of clothing with new, curious hands—settling together on the creaky length of Sam's bed. The comforter is a rusty red color, rough and a little scratchy against Dean's back when Sam maneuvers above him and presses him into the mattress.

" _Dean_ ," Sam breathes, over and over again, like a mantra or a promise or both. "Fuck, Dean, come on." His hands are everywhere at once, and Dean arches into his brother's touch. He whispers a groan into the air and finally, desperately, lets Sam's commanding fingers urge him to climax.

He returns the favor and then some—puts his mouth to good use and watches with wide, wondering eyes. He watches his brother come apart as Dean's lips tease and taunt and coax, and—only when he thinks it would be intolerably cruel to hold off any longer—finally take Sam over the edge.

There's inevitably guilt in the quiet that comes after—of course there is. There are lines you cross, and lines you don't, and incest is definitely one of the big, red, flashing-neon _Don'ts_.

But the guilt is nothing compared to the bone-deep satisfaction settling in beneath Dean's skin.

The guilt doesn't stand a chance of pulling Dean away from the sleepy, sated circle of his brother's arms.

Dean drifts off, sleep coming quiet and peaceful. And at the moment he's not thinking about the nightmares he'll be waking from later.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Morning follows, and the rest of the day after it, and Sam is surprised and grateful when Dean doesn't try to take back what they've done.

He more than half expected to wake up alone in his bed, with Dean already across the room pretending it never happened. It wouldn't be the first time his brother deflected and distracted instead of facing a problem head-on.

Not that this is a problem. Incest, sure, some might consider that a problem— _Sam_ might consider it a problem if he were looking at it from a rational standpoint—but everything about last night feels inevitable and right. It feels like exactly where he and Dean are supposed to be.

He wakes up with his brother in his arms, and follows Dean into the shower. Later, he drags Dean out for breakfast and doesn't mock him once for the triple side of bacon. Dean spends the morning catching Sam's eyes and then dodging away like he's been caught out. If he blushes a little over his orange juice, well Sam's a little red, too.

The honeymoon glow doesn't last long.

Sam's in the driver's seat on a Tuesday, talking excitedly about a new theory he's got—an exorcism that might have more kick if they add a few words—when he realizes Dean hasn't heard a word he's said for the past twenty miles.

His brother's eyes are locked vaguely on the horizon, faded out of focus, and his head tilts distractedly to the side.

"Dean," Sam says softly. Then tries saying it louder. Then pulls to the side of the road and turns off the car so he can shake his brother as hard as he can. Dean doesn't so much as twitch in response.

It's three hours later that Dean finally comes back to him. Three anxious hours, and Sam's still got the Impala parked on the same patch of dirt just off County Road E. Dean blinks and closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his eyelids and gives a discomfited grunt. Sam can only imagine how dry his brother's eyeballs must feel after that long staring at nothing.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean breathes, shaking his head and finally opening his eyes again. "Where are we?"

"Still halfway to nowhere," says Sam, scooting closer so he can loom worriedly and touch Dean's face with his hands. "You with me now, dude? Are you okay?"

"Jesus, Sam, how long was I tuned out?" Dean sounds annoyed, but he's not trying to avoid Sam's anxious touch.

"Too fucking long," says Sam. When Dean gives him a sharp look, he clarifies, "Over three hours. It's never been this bad before, Dean. We have to _do_ something." He doesn't bother asking what Dean heard. He's pretty sure he doesn't want to know.

"Yeah," Dean agrees tiredly. "Yeah, Sammy, we'll do something."

But Dean's too exhausted to do more than sleep. Sam drives them as far as the next town over and lets his brother crash between lime green sheets at a Country Budget Inn. He goes hunting for information while his brother sleeps—through the internet, through Dad's journal, even through Dean's list of hunter contacts—and doesn't make an inch of progress until long after the sun has set and vanished.

It's Bobby—Uncle Bobby, whom Sam hasn't talked to since he was fifteen—who gives him Pamela's number. "Don't expect any miracles," Bobby insists. "But she's a psychic. Might be able to help you out."

"Thanks, Bobby. Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet, kid," Bobby says. There's fond warmth in his voice.

Sam makes the call and drags his brother to Illinois. He rings the doorbell himself, because Dean is standing at the edge of the stoop with his hands jammed deep in his pockets, looking surly and uncertain and not at all happy to be bringing a stranger in on their problem.

"Dude, chill," Sam says, hating that they're so exposed out here. He can't step into his brother's space and set a reassuring hand on the small of his back the way he wants to. "Bobby vouched for her."

"Bobby ran Dad out of his house with a shotgun last time we visited."

"Yeah, well." Sam rolls his eyes. "Sometimes Dad has that effect on people. But he's _Bobby_ , man. He wouldn't steer us wrong."

"Fine," Dean huffs nervously. "But if this turns out to be a bust, don't expect me to be gracious about it."

"It won't be a bust," Sam says confidently, shutting up just as the door swings open.

Pamela Barnes is nothing like he expected. She's nothing like Dean expected either—Sam can tell from the way Dean perks instantly up, smiling his filthiest smile when the woman's eyes give him an appreciative scan.

Sam doesn't have time to feel territorial before she's giving him the same treatment.

"You Sam and Dean?" she asks. She grins, inviting and a little bit predatory. "Come on in," she says, and ushers them inside.

It's more like watching a hypnotherapist work than a psychic—not that Sam's watched all that many psychics do their thing. She counts Dean backwards and puts him under, tries to take him back through his memories—years and years and years—and the farther she takes him, the more agitated Dean becomes.

Sam wants to lunge forward and get his hands on Dean, to hold him steady as his brother's body slides into a shaking, writhing fit.

" _Don't_ ," Pamela orders him harshly, eyes locking him with an irrefutable command. Sam settles reluctantly back in his chair, and watches as she returns her attention to Dean where it belongs. "Dean, you're going to wake up now." Dean doesn't even seem to register the words, too busy shouting an insensate stream of ' _No, no no_.' "Dean, follow my voice. You're going to wake up in one, two three, four, _five_."

The room falls instantly silent.

"Dean, can you hear me?" Pamela asks. "Are you all right?"

Sam stares, breath caught in anxious terror, as Dean's eyes blink slowly open.

"Yeah," says Dean, his voice sounding dry and sluggish. "I'm good."

" _Dean_ ," Sam says, darting forward to kneel on the ground at his brother's side. "Dean, what did you see?"

His brother turns to look at him, and the movement is measured and controlled. Careful. Dean's eyes flash wide and dark with knowledge—bright with the weight of some undisclosed revelation.

"Oh, Sam," he says.

And Sam's blood runs cold.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean thanks Pamela, keeps warmth in his voice and a forced smile on his face as he asks for a moment alone with his brother. Sam is staring at him with a worried, breathless face. Kid always was too smart, always knew how to read Dean too damn well. Dean kicks his legs to the floor, and the second they're alone, Sam takes a seat beside him. Pressed up close along his side with that same anxious look on his face.

"You know what's going on, don't you" Sam says, gruff and earnest. "You figured it out. Dean, tell me."

"I remembered," says Dean.

"Remembered what?" Sam presses. Stubborn, inexorable, desperate.

"Sam, I'm… not who you think I am." Dean can feel the distance in his own voice, the strain of his words under the weight of the things he needs to explain. He feels lightheaded and lost, and Sam watches him with fearful, earnest sincerity.

"Talk to me, Dean." Sam shifts against his side, like he'd get even closer if he could, and all Dean wants to do is kiss his brother and lock this newfound knowledge away somewhere neither of them can find it. Instead he braces himself—squares his shoulders and clasps his hands together in his lap.

He forces himself to look Sam in the eye, and he says, "I'm an angel."

He's going to say more. He's going to try and explain. But a loud crash sounds from somewhere in the house, too much like human bones and furniture connecting, and then there's another, louder sound as something heavy and wooden crashes to the floor.

"Come on!" Dean shouts, and dashes for the door. Sam is immediately behind him, probably already reaching for the gun tucked into the back of his pants, and they emerge in coordinated unison, eyes sweeping the living room the second they're through the door.

Pamela lies still beneath a bookcase. Her face is hidden by her hair and one arm, but she's almost certainly unconscious. Dean darts his gaze across the room the other direction, and sees two men standing near the front door. One of them is familiar and hesitant, wearing a tan trench coat and an expression of tremendous discomfort. The other is older, rounder—pale and weasel-looking and bald. He's wearing an unfamiliar face, but Dean recognizes him anyway.

"Zachariah," he says acidly. "Long time, no see."

"Well," the weaselly man says brightly, stepping casually forward. "You're different than I expected. But we have business that doesn't concern you. Why not move along and let us get on with it?"

"Fuck you," Dean growls. "You're not touching him." He finds himself irrationally hoping for one of those debilitating, life-saving flashes of light, even though he knows that's not going to happen here. He knows that's not how it works when you're facing off against other angels.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asks, moving away from Dean and further into the room. "What's your business with me?" Dean's first instinct is to curse at Sam for drawing attention back to himself, but he keeps his mouth shut and watches. Sam keeps moving even after he's done talking, pacing across the room with slow, hesitant steps that look like nothing more than scared uncertainty.

But with each step he takes, the intruders turn further away from Dean to keep Sam in their sights. If he bides his time, waits until their backs are to him, maybe Dean can get Sam out of this in one piece.

"It's nothing personal, Sam," Zachariah says in a high, taunting voice. "But you're tainted. You've got demon blood in you, kiddo, and a destiny to boot."

"What kind of destiny?" asks Sam. The panic in his voice is exaggerated, but not entirely faked.

"Oh, a nasty one," Zachariah says with a laugh. "If we don't take care of you now, things will get pretty bad a couple years down the line."

The angels' backs are finally to him, and Dean moves as silently as he can toward the nearest wall. He reaches slowly for the knife he keeps in his boot, then slices a sharp cut into his palm, watching the blood well up until he has enough to work with. He's fast and quiet, darting looks over his shoulder to make sure his efforts are still going unnoticed.

The sigil is all but complete when Castiel's head turns just enough to catch sight of his movements, and Dean freezes as sharp, blue eyes find him. He stares at the angel and waits for him to sound the alarm.

But Castiel says nothing. Just meets his look head-on for a heart-pulsing moment and then, finally, gives him an imperceptible nod.

Dean nods back, painting one last jagged line onto the wall, and then presses his still bleeding palm to the center of the finished sigil.

The white flash of light doesn't knock him on his ass this time, and when he turns around Sam is staring at him a little bit cockeyed.

"What the hell is _that_?" Sam asks, staring at the bloody wall.

"A little trick I need to teach you sometime," says Dean, already dashing across the room towards Pamela. He can't lift the bookshelf himself, but between him and Sam they manage to get it upright. Pamela groans when the weight disappears, but she doesn't wake up, even as they carefully check her for broken bones.

"Thank god," says Dean when they don't find any. "Come on, we should still get her to the hospital."

"And then get ourselves the hell out of here," Sam adds, holding the door open so Dean can carry Pamela outside.

"Damn skippy," Dean mutters, and hurries toward the car.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam crawls into Dean's bed that night, hesitating for only a moment before curling up against his brother's side and draping an arm across his stomach. He half expects Dean to push him away. This thing between them was already wrong, after all. It's got to be even worse now that Dean knows what he is.

Sam's train of thought skips like a scratched vinyl LP at the idea, but he circles back in and forces himself to think it through.

' _Angel_.' He rolls the syllables around in his head, and they don't stop sounding strange. He hopes it just takes time to get used to.

He holds his breath for almost a full minute, exhaling slowly when it becomes clear that Dean will let him stay. Dean shifts a little beneath his arm, settling in closer so that Sam can rest his head more comfortably on Dean's shoulder. It would be so easy to drift off like this—to fall asleep and let everything wait until morning.

But Sam knows some things really shouldn't wait that long.

"It's not a coincidence," he says finally. "Your being here."

"It's late, Sam," says Dean. But the fatigue in his voice is belied by the warm resolve lacing the words. They both know this conversation is one they need to have now.

"You're not just some random angel that fell out of the sky. You're here because of me. My… My demon blood, or my destiny, or… whatever it is."

Dean doesn't answer, but it's as good as a yes.

"Do you know what's going to happen?"

"Some of it," says Dean. He hesitates fractionally, just enough for Sam to wonder if maybe Dean plans to keep him out of the loop. But then Dean takes a deep, slow breath and continues, "Lucifer will walk the Earth. And when he does, he'll need a vessel. _His_ vessel."

"Me," Sam realizes aloud, voice thick with horror. "He's going to claim me."

" _No_ ," says Dean, turning sharply to lock Sam with a dark, determined look. "I'm not letting that happen. _That's_ why I'm here."

Sam stares—wants to believe him, _god_ he wants to believe—and it's all too much. He doesn't know what to say.

Dean shifts against him again, warm and close, and then Sam feels a hand settle over his heart. "We're still blood, Sam," he says, tilting further onto his side and inclining his body towards his brother's. "You're my responsibility. That hasn't changed. I'm gonna take care of you, no matter what."

Sam's pretty sure he had something useful to say—some insightful question or maybe just a reverent ' _thank you_ '—but instead he finds himself surging forward. Kissing Dean with everything he's got, dragging Dean's startled body flush against him and sliding his fingers through the short, soft hair at the nape of his brother's neck. Dean opens for him, warm and welcoming, and all Sam wants to do is fall into his brother and never come back.

He draws away with slow reluctance, laughing humorlessly and pressing their foreheads together. He doesn't take his hands back or loosen his hold.

"Maybe I want to take care of you for a change," he says. He slivers his eyes open a crack and sees Dean smile.

"Some other time, man. One crisis at a time, okay?"

When Dean moves away to shift and settle, Sam lets him go long enough for Dean to find a comfortable position on his side. Sam spoons up behind his brother the second Dean stills, draping an arm over his hip and sliding his other hand beneath the pillow. He can feel Dean breathing this way, the rise and fall of his ribcage, and he's not embarrassed about the urge to snuggle so close.

"So what do we do?" he asks. His voice feels thick in his throat, and his head is suddenly fuzzy with sleep—it's been a hell of a long day.

"Just rest for now, Sammy," says Dean. "I have a plan."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

It's not a _great_ plan, Dean knows. Finding his grace sounds awesome in theory, but actually tracking it down is more difficult than it sounds.

Plus, there's dealing with Sam.

"Your _what_?" Sam asks in his most incredulous voice.

"My grace," Dean explains for the third time.

"And it's… what? Your angel essence? Your divine power?"

"Close enough," Dean mutters, grabbing the next bound set of newspapers from the stack beside him. The library is dusty and brightly lit, silent but for the hushed discussion Sam insists on having while they search.

"And you just… lost it. When you fell."

"Would you please stop repeating back at me things I told you five minutes ago?" Dean growls. He's not actually angry at Sam. Can't blame the guy for being curious. But Sam's curiosity is like a sharp weapon, and Dean's not really up for telling the whole story. How he had to cut his grace out himself. How it hurt like no other pain he could imagine.

How he did it anyway, because he knew he had to be here. Had to be human.

Had to be with Sam.

Sam, who looks like he's about to start asking for uncomfortable details, so Dean coughs loudly and shoves more newspapers towards his brother. "Would you please stop asking stupid questions and make yourself useful? We're looking for meteor sightings, remember? Get cracking already."

They find it in a field just east of Madison, Kansas. An enormous black walnut tree marks the spot, and Dean crouches by the roots. He feels into the earth through his palms, seeking out the faint tendrils of the grace that linger closest to the surface—using them to find the rest further down.

For a moment all he can think is ' _Thank god it's still here_.'

"This is kind of a ways from Lawrence," Sam points out, his presence a warm, calming wall of reassurance at Dean's back.

"Yeah, well." Dean smiles, feeling the pulse of power as it creeps obligingly towards the surface. "It came down pretty fast. Probably broke ten thousand miles an hour. We're lucky it didn't fall even further away, or we'd still be looking."

He stands slowly, pulling the grace from the earth in whispery, glowing strands. It coalesces in his hands, throbbing gold and full of life. When he turns to show it to Sam he sees awe on his brother's face.

"It's beautiful," says Sam, stepping closer and reaching out one hand. Probably doesn't even realize he's doing it.

"Stand back, Sammy," orders Dean, and the command brings Sam to his senses.

Sam does as he's told, putting several steps of space between them and watching Dean with wary eyes.

"What are you going to do?" Sam asks.

"This," says Dean, and throws the grace into the air.

It rains down on him a strand at a time, and he breathes it into his lungs, tastes it on his tongue, feels it skating under his skin. It feels like coming home, and the power warms and fills him—touches every crevice of his soul and makes him feel alive.

He turns to smile at Sam, wants to share this moment with his brother.

But there's another flash, bright and blinding, and everything is gone.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam spends three days searching for Dean, calling his cell phone every fifteen minutes and scouring the surrounding area. But it's like his brother has fallen off the face of the Earth.

Sam gets a little sick to his stomach when he thinks about how literally that might be true. He saw Dean vanish before his eyes. Just _Poof_ in the middle of a blinding flash of light, nothing left of him but the fading silhouette of where he'd been standing.

In all his years at Stanford, even the first when everything was new and strange and unfamiliar, Sam never felt this alone.

He calls Dad as soon as common sense kicks through the dumb, addling panic that's been fogging his brain. They should have called him from the start—should've filled him in the second Dean started hearing voices in his head, or the moment Pamela showed them the truth, or maybe when they tracked down Dean's grace. Sam feels like the world's worst son, recounting events now, too little too late.

John asks him a whole lot of questions, an interrogation that starts with, "How long have you known about this?" and ends with "Do you know anything else about these Castiel and Zachariah fellows?"

"I… I think they're angels, too," says Sam. "And Castiel… he might be on our side. He definitely let us escape when he could've stopped us."

"I want you to lay low," John orders, and for once Sam doesn't chafe at the commanding tone of voice. "Don't you go looking for Dean; you leave that to me. I'll meet up with you as soon as I've tapped my contacts, and we'll figure out what to do."

"Dad," says Sam, and his voice sticks stubbornly in his throat. He barely hears the words himself when he says, "I'm scared."

There's a long, heavy pause from the other end of the line. Silence fraught and tight. Sam wonders just how angry his father is.

But John doesn't sound angry when he finally speaks. Just scared, same as Sam, and dark with determination. "We'll find him," John promises. It's exactly what Sam needs to hear.

He hangs up and sets his phone aside, then curls onto his side on his wide, empty bed and resigns himself to wait.

He must fall asleep, because when he opens his eyes the room is dim, and it's dusk outside.

He's not alone.

"Hello, Sam," says a grating, insincere voice that Sam recognizes instantly.

He finds his feet quickly, whirling to put his back to the wall and face the center of the room. Zachariah stands at the foot of his bed, Castiel just behind him. They have half a dozen other men and women in tow this time, also probably angels, and Sam swallows past the brand new lump of panic in his throat.

"There's really no use putting up a fight," Zachariah says reasonably. "You're no match for one of us, let alone eight. I promise we'll make it painless."

Sam realizes he's right, that it's hopeless, and the stab of resignation makes his insides heave uncomfortably. His stomach twists, and he reels at the simultaneous impact of nausea and adrenaline.

He's going to die. He's never going to find Dean, because he's going to die right here. The thought makes him feel violently sick.

"So do it," he growls, hating how quickly the game is lost. He spares a look at Castiel, not expecting help in that quarter and not surprised when he doesn't get any. The trench-coat clad angel looks nauseous enough himself, but he's as silent and stoic as the unfamiliar faces hanging towards the periphery.

Zachariah takes a single step forward, all gleeful threatening intent.

And then Sam watches, eyes going wide, as he stops in his tracks and flies across the room, knocking over a redheaded angel in his path and hitting the wall with a loud, hard crack.

"What the hell?" Sam gasps. He blinks hard, momentarily blinded by an impossible flash of light. There's chaos around him, shrieks and panic and heavy, rushing footsteps.

When his vision finally clears, he sees Dean— _Dean_ —hauling Zachariah to his feet in front of the cowering, useless onlookers.

"I said I wouldn't let you touch him," Dean growls, whole body glowing with the unmitigated threat of violence. "You should have believed me. You should've stayed the _fuck_ away from him. I didn't want to do this."

And for all that the violence bleeds off of Dean in waves as he reaches up a hand and presses it to Zachariah's forehead, Sam believes the voiced reluctance is genuine.

When Zachariah is a smoldering smear of ash on the floor, Dean turns to face the other seven angels still standing in the room. His face is dark and unassailably powerful, his eyes ancient and snapping with rage.

"Does anyone else want to follow him?" he asks, and Sam would swear the question makes even the floor vibrate.

Castiel steps forward, head inclined in quiet deference. "Michael," he says. "We offer our sincerest repentance. We did not know."

"You knew enough," says Dean. But the look he's giving Castiel goes softer for a moment—just a split second to convey the gratitude Sam knows his brother must feel for their escape in Illinois. Dean's attention returns to the room at large, his shoulders squaring sharply and his whole frame taking on a new, intimidating stance. "Sam Winchester is not to be harmed. He's under my protection. Anyone who interferes will be dealt with." He doesn't turn around or indicate the mess of ash behind him. He doesn't need to.

"May we leave?" Castiel asks, inclining his head even further.

Dean's lip curls, angry disapproval, but he nods. "Go," he says. "All of you."

Sam feels a wordless flutter of wings, and suddenly he and Dean are alone in the room.

" _Jesus_ , Dean!" he gasps, staggering forward and dragging his brother into his arms. "Where the _fuck_ have you been?"

"Sorry, dude," says Dean, letting Sam manhandle and cling to him. "Getting my grace back threw me for a loop, and then I was busy."

" _Busy_ ," Sam chokes. He steps back to hold Dean at arm's length. "So busy you couldn't call to let me know you were alive? What were you _doing_ , dude?"

"Taking care of a yellow-eyed son of a bitch who's had it coming for a long time," says Dean. He says it not with satisfaction, but finality.

"Oh," says Sam. It feels completely inadequate. And then, as something else occurs to him, he tilts his head curiously and asks, " _Michael_?"

Dean looks instantly uncomfortable, reaching up to scrub a hand along the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. I mean, you knew I had to've had a name before, right?"

"Sure," says Sam. "But… _Michael_? That means you're, like, one of the big guys, right? Do you have a flaming sword?"

"Sort of," says Dean, posture loosening under Sam's barrage of questions. "Look, could we not do this right now? Let's hit the road and find Dad."

"Oh!" Sam exclaims, suddenly reminded. "We need to call Dad! He's looking for you."

"Doesn't look like that's going very well," Dean says with a smirk. "Come on. You call, I'll drive."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

They arrange to meet John in Casper, Wyoming, and Dean can tell just from Sam's side of the conversation that the man is going to want a full, thorough, painfully detailed explanation for the past several months.

They drive until well past nightfall. Sam keeps asking if this is far enough, if they can pull over and find a place to crash already. But Dean needs more distance. He doesn't relish having killed Zachariah, no matter how necessary or justified or goddamn righteous a thing it was to do. He wants to leave it as far behind him as possible, and at the moment, geographically is the only way he can accomplish that.

They finally stop for the night at a Motel 6. There are fourteen cars in the lot, a fully functional sign advertising cable and internet, and the promise of a continental breakfast from six to eight. It's splurging for them, but Dean is achy and exhausted, and they goddamn deserve it.

Dean checks them into a room with one king-sized bed, because he knows they won't need a second one. Sam gives him a strange look when he sees—an odd mix of hope and uncertainty and adoration. Dean thought they were past all that by now, but he supposes Sam has had a long day, too.

"Move it, Sasquatch," Dean mutters tiredly. "You're letting in a draft."

They change into sleepwear like zombies, rote movements and exhausted limbs. Dean hits the pillow hard, burrowing under the covers and waiting, impatient, until Sam settles in.

They lie there silently for so long that he thinks Sam has fallen asleep, tired and distant on his own side of the bed. He startles when the mattress shakes, and leans gratefully into the heat of his brother's chest when Sam finally scoots closer and wraps an arm around him.

"Are you staying now?" Sam asks, tucking his chin over Dean's shoulder. "You don't have to go do heavenly business or something?"

"No way," Dean murmurs sleepily. "You're stuck with me, dude. 'Til death do us part." He means it to sound flippant. It comes out anything but. Sam's only response is to hold him tighter, thumb moving in unconscious circles along Dean's stomach.

"Promise?" Sam asks, sounding far too coherent despite the exhaustion tinting his words.

"Cross my heart," says Dean.

He thinks about twisting around in Sam's arms, capturing a goodnight kiss and letting it go desperate—hungry and hard. He thinks about covering Sam's hand on his stomach and sliding it lower, to more useful pursuits. He thinks about wriggling back against Sam, creating enough friction to drive his brother nuts and spur him into action.

He thinks about all those things and then some, but instead he drifts to sleep. Sam's arms are warm around him, Sam's breath a predictable whuff across his neck. There will be time for everything else tomorrow.

For now, Dean sleeps, and no nightmares wake him.

 

\- — - FIN - — -


End file.
